Alone on the Shield

by Kirk Landers

  Pender had hidden the rest of his gear just inside the tree line to avoid attention from rangers or passing trippers. As he reached it, his peripheral vision picked up movement on the lake. He slid behind cover and watched a canoe moving north at a rapid clip. He blinked. The paddlers looked a lot like the fat fishermen, big and strong and fast.

  Jesus, he thought, could it be? How in the hell would they figure him for this lake? There were dozens of other possibilities. Maybe a hundred. And how could they have this much time? It wasn’t like he’d stolen the family fortune or something.

  As they disappeared in the northern reaches of the lake, he wondered what he should do. He needed to paddle for the rest of the day to make his rendezvous with Annette on time, but he wasn’t sure he could paddle at all. Even if he could, in his damaged condition, if the fat boys saw him, they would overtake him easily, and he was in no shape to defend himself.

  He pulled his gear farther back into the tree line and looked for a place to camp.

  * * *

  Annette paddled the solo canoe with easy efficiency, spacing short, smooth paddle strokes to get the maximum glide from her boat. By lunchtime she had already covered ten miles of open water and portaged into the first of a chain of small lakes. She paused to update her trip planning book occasionally, noting the condition of established campsites and portage trails along the way.

  As Annette’s mind wandered from thought to thought, she imagined running into the arrogant Stuart party; they had come this way a few days earlier. She imagined finding them in trouble and having to blow off Pender to get them to safety.

  She pushed the thought from her mind.

  At the far end of the lake, she scanned the shoreline for signs of a creek, found it, a dark opening in the tree line flanked by a large sloping rock on one side and a pine forest on the other.

  As she approached the take-out, a huge bull moose lumbered out of the brush into the shallows and stared at her. Annette stopped her canoe abruptly, keeping a respectful distance from him. He was all of six feet tall at the shoulder, and his antlers reached close to ten feet high. He weighed more than a half ton, and he was the king of the northwoods. Only a fool would challenge him.

  The moose plunged his head into the water and emerged with a mouthful of shoots. He eyed her casually as he chewed, no fear in his gaze, not even wariness. After another mouthful, he moseyed off, slower than slow motion, and faded into the woods like a ghost—one moment a lumbering giant, the next, a memory.

  Annette paused a beat to savor the encounter. As often as she had come upon moose and bear and otter and the other creatures of the Canadian Shield, it never got old. The encounter jogged her memory of another meeting, one she’d never forget. It had come deep in the park on a solo trip just like this one. She had passed close to a wooded island just a few feet from the mainland and looked up to see a mother wolf staring at her while her cubs rolled on the ground behind her, playing, oblivious to the human interloper. Mama Wolf had been on full alert, her ears up, her eyes never moving from Annette. But she was curious, too. She probably had never seen a human so close before. Annette had stopped and stared, letting her mind take in the details of the wolf, her bright eyes, her elegant coat, clean with just a few fringes of molted hair from the summer shedding, long legs, strong body.

  “You are so beautiful.” Annette had spoken softly to the wolf, hoping to extend the moment. She kept speaking, putting into words the beauty she saw, how cute the cubs were, how much she hoped they would all survive the winter.

  It had lasted for just a minute. Then the wolf had gathered her cubs and trotted them down the shore, across the channel to the mainland, and disappeared into the forest.

  Annette had dreamed of that encounter many times in the intervening years, and the familiar memory got her through the short portage into the next lake. She handled the weight of her pack and canoe with the ease of a young man in good shape. Only a few other local women could haul such a big load such a long distance, and they were in their twenties or thirties. When it came to paddling and portaging, Annette was in a granny class all by herself.

  12

  Searing pain woke Pender constantly through the night, making him wish for once that he was in an established campsite with a nice, level tent area, no roots or boulders. Instead, he was sleeping rough, his tent on a grade, the ground beneath him rocky and irregular. Each time he woke he grimaced and groaned and stared into the darkness, trying not to despair, resolving to rest until morning if he could, reminding himself that he’d done this for days on end in Vietnam, in rain and bugs, with people trying to kill him. Eventually, he’d fade into a half sleep, then awaken when some jerk or motion of his body sent shooting pain from his back down his right leg to his shin.

  Around 4:30 he gave up. The muscles in his lower back were locked in spasms. He had to grit his teeth and hold his breath to roll off his back. Stars popped in his vision. He lay on his side, teeth clenched, eating the pain, wondering what his spine looked like. Slipped disc? Fracture? Could he survive this?

  The impulse to sob passed. He took in a lungful of air, held his breath, gritted his teeth, and tried to get out of the sleeping bag, tried to fight through the scalding pain. Stopped when he got to all fours, took another breath, pulled the sleeping bag off. Cried out. Groaned. Ground his teeth. Opened the tent door and fly, ate the pain. Rolled out the door, ate the pain. Used a tree to help himself onto his feet, stood stooped over with his hands on his knees, holding his breath to withstand the pain.

  It was pitch-black outside, signaling an overcast sky, and Pender could smell rain. Perfect. He willed himself to straighten into a standing position. Flashbulbs popped in his vision. He felt faint, held the tree, let it pass.

  He forced himself to move around, to increase blood flow to his convulsing muscles and stretch and warm them. As he stretched and walked, he scanned the darkness on the lake, looking for any trace of light coming from the north, where the fat boys headed last night, listening in the still air for any sound of movement. Nothing.

  He opened his food pack and pulled out coffee-making paraphernalia. The movements made him wince and gasp, but the pain was eroding a little. He found his first aid kit and downed four tablets of ibuprofen, then set up his stove to boil water, keeping it behind a log so the flame would be virtually invisible from the north, where the fat boys might be lurking. He sat on a small boulder and leaned against a tree trunk, sipping hot coffee, waiting for daylight. He wondered if he could get himself out of here, and he wondered how in the hell the fat boys had tracked him to this lake system.

  They had to be asking everyone they encountered if they had seen a solo tripper in a Kevlar canoe. There probably wouldn’t be more than two trippers in the whole park who fit that description, and probably just him. That could have gotten them close, and they maybe guessed that he’d be on this lake system. If you had the gumption to get into it, it was a spectacular series of long, narrow lakes lying end to end for miles, connected by a creek.

  Pender thought about the fat boys. He wondered what drove them, why they’d go to such lengths over nothing more than a practical joke. They were headed in the right direction, but they were still looking for a needle in a haystack. After today, finding him would be impossible. Today, he’d be leaving this chain to move west, to meet Annette, and when he left this chain, the fat boys would never find him.

  If his body would let him.

  He pushed the doubt from his mind with scorn. He would paddle today. He’d make miles. He’d bury whatever pain came with it. Nothing would stop him.

  When the bravado wore off, Pender wondered if he had done permanent injury to his spine. He wondered if he had the strength to portage. The steep bluffs were hard enough in good health; with a severely damaged back they might be impossible.

  Pender even wondered if he could still paddle. It was possible he was trapped here, in the middle of an eighteen-hundred-square-mile wilderness, scores of miles and doze
ns of portages from the nearest road. It was possible he might not even be able to get off this lake.

  He wondered if he had the strength to deal with a storm. Probably not. He could envision one blowing in as he crossed open water, could feel the boat turning sideways to the wind and surf, him powerless to correct the motion. He could feel the boat going over, could feel the icy water envelop him like embalming fluid.

  “Shit!”

  He swore out loud, stopping his imagination. Outraged by his own self-pity. I’m not afraid to die! The thought scorched his mind. I’m the meanest motherfucker in the valley.

  He used the tree to help him stand, groaning and cursing. He repeated the procedure over and over again as he struck camp. He shoved off just as the first beams of daylight revealed the slate-gray sky of an overcast day.

  A November sky, thought Pender. A death sky.

  * * *

  Annette traversed a long, narrow, reef-strewn lake into a small bay that ended in a rocky pinch point formed by a low island that nearly touched both shores of the lake.

  She made her way to a primitive campsite on the western extremity of the island. She preferred it to more comfortable sites for its privacy and its coarse sand beach, great for bathing.

  She set up camp, and got ready to bathe while the sun was still warm. She stripped on the beach and waded out to a flat rock in two feet of water. She used the rock as a shelf for her soap and shampoo and washed her hair and body—quickly. Even after decades of wilderness tripping, the bone-numbing cold of the Quetico waters took her breath away.

  Afterward, she lay on the rock, faceup, soaking in the perfect solitude. The late afternoon sun caressed her skin with soft warmth. The air barely moved. She could hear the singsong trill of birds in the distance. She closed her eyes dreamily, almost sleeping. Her mind drifted back to the university. To 1968.

  “Do you believe in anything?” she asked.

  Pender started to answer, a little flushed with anger, stopped, thought. “Maybe not.”

  “So you’d be fine with going to war and killing people?”

  “If I had to, I guess.”

  “That wouldn’t bother you? Killing someone’s father or brother?”

  “I think I’d be more concerned about them killing me.”

  “That’s really shallow.”

  “Why do you get to pass judgment? You don’t get drafted. You can afford to philosophize. You have nothing to lose. And don’t get me started on your hippie-dippy friends with their phony compassion. They don’t give a shit about anything but themselves.”

  “They’re dedicated to peace and making the world a better place. What are you dedicated to?”

  “They’re dedicated to smoking dope and getting laid after the next rally. I’d like to get laid too, but I’m not going to stand there with a goddamn candle in my hand and sing protest songs to do it.”

  “What do you stand for, Pender?”

  “I stand for graduating before my money runs out.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I deal with whatever’s on the other side.”

  “If you get drafted?”

  “I go.”

  Her ruminations were interrupted by the whack of a paddle hitting a gunnel. She sat up and looked toward the main bay. Two canoes with four men were passing through, heading southwest, trying to make the next lake before dark. They didn’t see her. They were paddling hard, looking straight ahead, seasoned trippers moving fast late in the day.

  When they passed, she waded ashore and dressed. The sun was low, creating long shadows. She assembled her fishing pole and began casting in the shadowy waters.

  After a half hour with no strikes, she launched her canoe and worked the drop-offs around the island. Eventually she picked up a meal-sized walleye in the deep channel between the island and the mainland.

  She filleted and skinned it on a rock formation a half mile from her campsite, leaving the entrails for the gulls circling above. As she prepared to launch her canoe, Annette sensed another presence nearby. It startled her, and she whirled to scan the near shore. A big yellow dog stared at her, still as a statue, his body tense.

  It looked like a pet, but no pet should be there. No one else was camping on the lake. Her mind whirled with possibilities. Most likely the dog had been lost by a canoe party. It happened once in a while. Or it could be with an owner who went hiking up the ridge and didn’t make it back.

  Annette paddled slowly toward the dog, not sure if it was friendly. As she drew near, the dog’s tail started to wag and it barked excitedly, then jumped up and down and barked louder. She could see he was male, and he seemed friendly. In fact, he seemed deliriously happy at the prospect of human companionship. The dog splashed into the water and swam for her canoe.

  To Annette’s shock and horror, the dog tried to scramble aboard the boat, nearly capsizing her. “No!” she yelled, prodding him with her paddle. But the dog tried again. This time she shrieked “No!” and thumped him on the head with her paddle blade.

  The dog desisted but followed her into the shallows, and when his feet made ground, he leaped into the canoe. His weight grounded the boat in a few inches of water. Annette jumped out and ordered the animal out. The dog leaped from the canoe and then leaped on her, his front paws striking her in the chest. She fell butt-first like she’d been shot, and the dog was on her instantly, tail wagging, tongue out, panting dog breath into her face.

  “Get off me!” She tried to scream it, but it came out as more of a grunt. She shoved the dog away and struggled to her feet. Her lower body was soaked. The dog danced and splashed gaily as she watched, hands on hips.

  Annette reached for the canoe to prevent it from floating out into the lake. The dog leaped into the boat, sitting as it rocked, tail wagging, tongue hanging happily from the side of his mouth. He looked inebriated.

  “Get out!” she ordered, gesturing with her hand. The dog started to respond, then sat again. He was not going to be left here by himself.

  Annette reached out to him. As he licked her hand, she grasped his collar and pulled him out of the boat. The dog followed her obediently. On the rocky shore, she gave him a cursory inspection. No ID tags, just a U.S. rabies tag. He looked like the Stuarts’ dog, but she hadn’t seen much of him at the CSO building. Seemed healthy. Matted coat. Lonely. Friendly. And no force on earth was going to keep him from going with her.

  She called into the dense woods that started just a few feet from the water and rose up a steep incline for fifty feet. “Hello? Anybody here? Is this your dog?”

  She yelled several times, but knew it was a waste of time. There was no canoe on the beach but hers. She was the only human for miles. She looked at the dog again. “I guess we’re stuck with each other,” she said. The dog sat, looking her in the eye, wagging his tail.

  Annette put the dog in the canoe behind her seat and attempted to launch. After just a few paddling strokes, the dog thrust his nose beneath the canoe seat, found her fish filets, and snatched them, foil and all. He stood triumphantly and began to circle to lie down and eat his prize. The boat capsized before Annette could brace. She saved the fishing gear, but the filets were gone. The dog was happily chewing the last of them when she pulled the canoe ashore. She swung a paddle at him, missing him by a wide margin. The dog wagged his tail as if it was a game.

  She dumped the water out of the boat and launched again, this time putting the dog in front. Each time he made a movement—any movement—she rapped him on the head with her paddle and yelled, “Stay.” It wasn’t a hard blow. She didn’t want to hurt him, and she especially didn’t want to break the paddle. It was just hard enough to make a bonking noise that had unsettled every dog she’d ever boat-trained. The third time she corrected him, she yelled, “Stay, you son of a bitch.”

  That worked. The big yellow dog lay flat in the boat, sighed, and calmed down. This dog responds to obscenities, Annette thought, just like human males. She concluded he must have been abandoned o
r maybe wandered off from camp and got lost. Or maybe he capsized his master’s boat one time too many.

  While the dog was still calm, she went back to the area where she had caught the walleye and caught two more. She guessed the dog hadn’t eaten in a while, so one fish was for him. She decided to clean the fish in camp and paddle out to the rocks with the waste material later, by herself.

  The dog seemed to know what camp was about. He barked and raced around the area for several minutes while Annette brought the canoe ashore. As she prepared the food, he stayed at her side, watching every move, drooling like a big yellow waterfall.

  Annette placed the fish in a pan on the rocks of her fire pit as she set to building a fire. When the dog made a move for the fish, she raised her arms like the boogeyman and screamed, “No!” He dashed back several feet, sat, and wagged his tail, his face a picture of innocence.

  “You bastard!” she added, making her voice sound angry.

  Sure enough, his tail stopped wagging, he retreated several more feet and lay down, chin on the ground, eyes pleading.

  “Right, Fido. You’re real innocent,” she said to him. He wagged his tail hopefully and moved to her side. “You scarf one more fish, and I’ll drown your miserable hide.”

  He looked her in the eye and wagged his tail. As Annette cooked the meal, the dog curled up at her feet, but he came to full attention when she was ready to eat. She put his fish fillets on a small aluminum plate and placed it near her perch by the fire. He devoured the food before she could even begin her own meal and sat himself in front of her, staring, his eyes following every movement of her fork.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she ate. “If we’re going to travel together, we ought to know each other’s names. I’m Annette. I’m a wild woman, in the outdoors sense of the word. I haven’t had a dog since, oh gosh, ten or fifteen years I guess.